


Every Dog Has Its Day

by Jillypups



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Motorcycles, cute I hope, dumb, everglades, hnnngh, i said motorcycles right?, idk - Freeform, sophie is sansa, tom hardy is sandor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 09:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8440402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/pseuds/Jillypups
Summary: Sansa breaks down on the Everglades Highway. Someone comes to the rescue, and he's tucked in a scary guy's coat.
  picset





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanillacoconuts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillacoconuts/gifts).



Sansa sits in the car for a full five minutes after the engine dies, hand on the key that’s still in the ignition, and she stares out at the desolate highway in front of her. It’s almost sunset, and the idea of being stranded out here after dark is terrifying, and not just because there doesn’t seem to be a soul out on the road today.

“There are alligators out there,” she mutters, “ _and_ I’m in frickin’ panther territory. No, I’m in Robb’s shitty old car,” she self corrects as she finally abandons the useless key to slap her palm against the steering wheel so hard the horn honks and Sansa screams from her jumped up nerves.

I never should have come to visit Margaery, she thinks as she finally hauls her tired ass out of the car and steps out onto the Everglades Highway. And I never should have believed Robb when he told me his stupid rebuilt car was better than any Corvette off the lot. 

She opens the hood and props it up, not that she has a clue of what to do with whatever the hell she might find under there, but it feels proactive and very woman hear me roar, and she knows if there’s scuzz all over the battery she can pour her lukewarm diet coke on it and hope that does the trick. Up goes the hood and for her trouble she’s greeted with a faceful of smoke and steam.

“Dammit!”

 World’s worst facial. 

There is a rumble and a growl somewhere in the distance but still too close for comfort, and Sansa thinks panthers and alligators and bears, oh my, thinks of the kind of monsters that Arya and Rickon like to dress up as for Halloween, but then she calms down as she realizes it’s a motorcycle. 

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she says, because it’s the only person on the highway since the damned car sputtered itself to death, because her cell phone is dead and this is her one shot.

Sansa thinks of Bran and Jojen’s favorite movie, Clue, and after briefly assessing the approach of the man on the bike, headed right for her, she does her best Miss Scarlett attempt and leans over the hood, foot in the air despite the fact she’s in flip flops and not Leslie Ann Warren’s era-appropriate heels. It’s not exactly feminism and definitely not woman hear me roar, but hey, there are _predators_ out here. But then she’s thinking about her women’s history professor seeing this display, and with a sigh of exasperation Sansa lowers her foot and stands up so swiftly she bangs her head on the lifted hood.

“ _Dammit!_ ”

The rumble and the sputter and the grumble and the roar get ear-splittingly closer only to eventually die down as the motorcycle’s engine is shut off, and then Sansa hears a laugh that sounds an awful lot like the bike’s engine.

“Hey, at least you tried it,” a man says amidst the sound of boots on gravel, and Sansa rubbernecks around the side of the open hood.

And then she gasps.

He’s big and brutish and scarred, the side of his face a melted-wax kind of mess that is noticeable despite the beard and the little pit bull puppy tucked in his jacket, happily licking his good cheek. And he’s striding towards her with the confidence of a well-built man, the up-and-down eye contact of a man who knows what’s coming. So Sansa lets go of a shaky breath that she passes off as car related frustration, wills herself to stare him in the eyes instead of the scars, and steps towards him.

“Tried it and failed, which is about how my day’s going,” she says, staring at the guarded grey of his eyes – don’t look down don’t look down don’t look down – all while he squints at her, the way her father stares at Arya when he’s trying to find out if she’s lying.

“I’m no good at cars, but even with this little guy, I’ve still got room for one more if you want me to take you somewhere with a phone or a tow truck or whatever. All I gotta do first is get this guy some dog chow. I just found him and I think he’s pretty hungry.”

He is scary. There is no way around it, and Sansa bites her lip and squints at him in the dying afternoon light, folds her arms across her chest as she evaluates the situation. Panthers. Gators. The occasional creepy shriek of some sky raptor sweeping the purple-red sky above. The deep dark Everglade night that’s starting to sink down around them like a lady’s dress when she shrugs out of it and it falls to the ground. The fact that it’s going to be sitting behind this guy with her legs around him, this Mister Tough Guy, this Mister Gruff Guy.

And then the puppy licks him again, and the glare of scrutiny he’s giving her ripples away as he tips his face towards the slurpy pink tongue instead of away from it, like most people would do. And then Sansa smiles.

“Yeah,” she says with a nod, with the pound of her heart and a shiver as a lick of wild breeze gusts against her bare arms. “Yeah, I’d like that, thank you. Um. Um, so what’s your name?”

Finally he lifts his head away from the puppy’s attentions, and he looks at her squarely once more. One beat, and then two, before he inhales.

“Sandor,” he says on the exhale. “My name’s Sandor.”

“All right, Sandor. I’m Sansa,” she says with a sniff as she fiddles with the little metal arm holding up the hood of the car, and she only jumps a _little_ when it slams shut. “Let’s go get that little cutie some food.”

“Thought you wanted a tow truck,” he says, turning on his heels in the gravel to watch her as she ducks into the car to get her purse.

“Well,” she says, gesturing with the lift of her chin towards the little puppy in his jacket. “Every dog has its day.”

Big scary man Sandor huffs out a chuckle, and then he grins, the sunset a dance of color on the pink ruin of his scarred cheek.

“Don’t I know it,” he mutters before turning to walk back to his bike.

Sansa can’t help but smile.


End file.
